


ill show you a love potion

by pragmatic



Category: The 100
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, happy late valentine’s day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-02 00:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17877854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pragmatic/pseuds/pragmatic
Summary: Bellamy has never had powers—and he was okay with that. He was fine enjoying the luxuries of his friends’ magic, he didn’t need his own in order to appreciate it.And if appreciating magic included testing a love potion... What harm could it do?





	ill show you a love potion

**Author's Note:**

> this is somewhat mortally corrupt i apologize but i also don’t care so. read it or leave it

Witches and warlocks weren’t uncommon; Bellamy’s sister could create windstorms with a flick of her wrist, and his best friend from college could convince anyone to tell the truth by simply looking them in the eye. But Bellamy had never had anything to do with magic directly, none of it ran in his veins, or his mind, and he was fine with it. His friends tested spells and charms on him, and that was as close as he got. 

And that was as close as he would get. Ever again.

***

“It smells like foot in here,” Bellamy coughed, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.

“Horse foot, to be exact.” Monty smiled, lifting a bottle off the shelf without touching it.

“You got that at the market?”

“No, I cut it off myself.” A pause. An eye roll. “Of course I got it at the market.”

“What are you making?” Bellamy poked a jar with a dead frog inside, to which it opened its eyes, and Bellamy nearly crawled under the table.

Monty batted his hands away, and sat himon a stool in the centre of the room while he worked. He and Monty had been friends for a while, and Bellamy had always been supportive of the concoctions that Monty created. The liquid of the day seemed to glow and gleam, even though the windows were shuttered closed. It was a lovely pink shade, causing a happy feeling to spread within Bellamy’s chest, and making him grin like a fool.

Monty ladled a small portion of the potion into a bottle, and handed it to Bellamy. “Don’t be mad.”

“Don’t give me a reason.” Bellamy inspected the bottle, trying to guess what magic was contained inside.

“It’s a love potion. But it’s my first, so I wanted to ask you if I could—“

“No. No, no, and in case I wasn’t clear, no!” He threw the potion back at Monty, not wanting to be in contact with the vile substance any longer. Monty simply paused the bottle in midair, and floated it gently down to the table.

“Please, it’ll only last for a few days, and that’s only if it works. It might not!”

Bellamy was backing up, reaching for the door handle as he went. “Oh good, and then it can swell my head to three sizes too big instead.”

“Come on! It’s almost Valentine’s Day!”

“Aren’t those potions illegal, anyway? They should be; consent, Monty, consent.”

He had reached the door, was about to pull it open and slam it shut behind him. A love potion, what was Monty thinking?

“Clarke has already agreed to test it with you.”

He paused. An interesting development, but Monty did this to try and sway him, and it was also terrifying and not at all moral bending.

“And how did you manage that?”

“I told her I needed her to be a friend, and she immediately stepped up to the plate.” Bellamy could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Guilt tripping? Really?”

“Did it work?”

“Fuck you. Give me the potion.”

***

He and Clarke hadn’t exactly been friends for a long time, but they had known each other for years. Bellamy had been her TA, and they had frequently gotten into arguments about marks, which carried into their dynamic outside of school, where they somehow ended up in the same friend group.

And Bellamy didn’t want their dynamic to change. It was comfortable, it was routine—it was fun, even. Arguing had become less about who was right, and more about who had more arguing stamina. Picking fights was their friendship—how was that supposed to translate into a relationship?

 _You’re_ _being_ _stupid_ , he thought, _it’s_ _not_ _like_ _it’s_ _going_ _to_ _be_ _real_.

Then, the doorbell rang, and he was perfectly content to be distracted by the pizza that was on the other side.

He opened the door, and was sorely disappointed. “You’re not the pizza guy.”

Clarke frowned, ignoring his statement. “How old are you?” Somehow, she made this question less functional and more accusatory than he would have liked.

He stepped aside to let her inside. “Physically, or mentally?”

“It’s comforting to know that you realize they’re different. In your case, at least.” She set down her purse, and immediately began digging through it like there was treasure hidden in its depths.

He huffed without being heard, and closed the door. “Have you just come here to insult me?”

She finished going through her bag, and finally produced a small vile, glinting pink in the sunlight.

His stomach dropped. “Somehow I was thinking you’d forget about that.”

“Listen,” she tossed the bottle between each hand. “I’m not wanting us to fall in love to _fall_ _in_ _love_ —it’s an experiment. We almost hate each other, so I want to see how a love potion will affect us.”

 _Almost_ _hate_ _each_ _other_. The phrase echoed in his mind, not sure if the connotation behind it was good or bad. “You’d suffer through dating me, just to see the result of some experiment?”

Clarke cocked her hip, levelling him with a stare. “If it works, I won’t be suffering during it, and the potion will only last two days.”

He didn’t know why he was arguing about this, it wasn’t like he didn’t want to take the potion. He wanted to help Monty, he wanted to see where this went—what was he waiting for?

He inhaled, did everything but stomp into the kitchen, and found his own vile.

Clarke followed him, leaning her hip against the counter and smirking. “Now, I don’t want to push you to do anything you wouldn’t want to do—“

“Shut up.” He downed the liquid, shuddering at the bitter taste. He stared at Clarke as she carried out the same motions, and waited for the potion to kick in.

And waited. He didn’t feel anything, he wasn’t overcome with affection or adoration. He was about to inform Clarke of this, when she took his face in her hands, and kissed him.

He wasn’t sure why in movies they always showed couples humping each other after taking a love potion—it wasn’t supposed to make you horny, it was meant to make you fall in love.

And that’s what Clarke clearly was feeling, if the tenderness behind her kiss was anything to judge by. He was so caught up, he didn’t even stop to think about why the potion on worked on her, and not on him.

He gently pushed her up against the counter, resting his hips against hers. Her fingers were exploring his back, nails lightly digging in, then delving under his shirt completely. His arms encircled her waist, pulling her closer and tighter against him.

He pulled back, only to immediately begin kissing her neck instead.

“Bellamy—“ she started.

“Bellamy! And Clarke? Oh my _god_ —“ Octavia slapped her hand over her eyes, dropping the bags she was carrying at the doorway.

He jumped away from Clarke, feeling caught doing something wrong, scrambling for something to explain what they’d been doing. But Clarke closed the space between them again, tucking herself under his arm and looking up at him fondly.

Right. Love potion. “Hi, Octavia.”

Her eyes were still covered, and she showed no signs of removing her hand from in front of them. “Is everyone decent?”

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “No one was ever indecent.”

Slowly, she parted her fingers, scouting the scene for herself. “Is this a recent development?”

Bellamy’s cheeks were flushed, and his words fell over one another. “I—well, we just—actually—“

Clarke rolled her eyes. Apparently, the potion hadn’t taken away that aspect of her personality. “Monty told us how compatible he thought we were, and so we decided to give it a shot.”

Bellamy started, then instantly began nodding along. “Yeah. Yes, exactly.”

Octavia didn’t look convinced. “You decided to try it out, by immediately putting your tongues down each other’s throats?”

Bellamy only blushed harder. He didn’t know why he was so embarrassed, he was thirty years old—his sister had caught him doing much worse. “Octavia, I thought you’d be happy for us.”

Octavia looked taken back. “Of course—of _course_ I’m happy for you. I just—“

“Never thought we’d get our heads out of our asses?” Clarke helpfully supplied.

“Well. Yeah.”

Bellamy pressed a kiss to Clarke’s head, feeling protected under the guise of the potion. “Well, we did. Did you actually come over for a reason? Or just to cock block me?”

She scowled. “I came to remind you about Niylah’s showing tomorrow. You are still coming, right?”

Shit. He had totally forgot about the art show. Who knew life still went on after you took a love potion. “Yeah. Yes, Clarke and I are both going.”

Octavia looked sceptical, but nodded appreciatively. “Good. I’ll see you both tomorrow , then.”

***

Clarke seemed to not remember taking the potion at all, no matter how many hints Bellamy dropped. She acted completely in love with him—which, he wasn’t exactly against. It was kind of nice, if he was being honest.

She held his hand, smiled fondly at him whenever he opened his mouth, and was generally giving his confidence a complete makeover.

The thing was, he knew if he and Clarke actually started dating, they would have tried to hide it from all of their friends—at least until they were solid in their decision to be together. They wouldn’t be going out, in public, the day after they decided to give things a go.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he didn’t want anyone to know that they had taken a love potion—it just felt wrong. Another thing that felt wrong—why did the potion work on Clarke, but not him? Did Monty mess it up? Did this particular elixir only work on females?

There were two other possibilities, both of which Bellamy was entirely too chickenshit to even think about.

While Clarke was in the bathroom, he googled the side effects and defects of love potions. Of course, obsession, embarrassment and restraining orders were at the top of the list. But—it also mentioned something about a clause; some potions were completely useless if the subject was already in love.

So either Clarke was faking it, or Bellamy already loved her.

The thought took the air out of his lungs, forcing him to shut the laptop and shove it under a pillow until he got his shit together. Clarke had to be under the influence of the potion, there was no reason for her to be acting like this.

So that left the other option, which was as equally confusing and terrifying.

“You okay?” Clarke asked, making his already racing heart almost stop completely.

He nodded a little too enthusiastically.“Yeah. For sure. I was just—reading about global warming. Twelve years, huh? Pretty scary.”

Clarke tilted her head, and sat down beside him. “Are you sure? That you’re okay, I mean.”

He raked a hand through his hair, inhaling. “I’m sure. Don’t worry.”

“Okay,” she put a hand to his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

She was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world, and he physically felt his chest cave in. “I know. Thank you.”

Clarke nodded, kissed his forehead, and went out to the kitchen.

He was so fucked.

***

“Monty! I need your help! I think I’m going insane!” He shouted through the lab, ducking under shelves and around tables.

Monty appeared, looking haggard and sleep deprived as usual. “Hey, Bellamy. What’s wrong?”

“The potion worked. Or, it didn’t work; for me at least, and Clarke doesn’t remember, and she’s acting like she’s in love, because I guess she is, but I’m not! Well, I might be, but not because of the potion, which is why I’m here—“

“Okay, woah, take a breath.” Monty guided him to a stool, and sat him down.

“I need your help,” Bellamy said, desperate and helpless all at once.

“I can see that. Start from the beginning, the potion worked—but it didn’t?”

Bellamy nodded. “It worked on Clarke; or at least she’s acting like it did. And she’s telling everyone that you therapied us into getting together, and doesn’t remember taking the potion.”

“But you do?”

“Yes! I remember! I remember taking it, and not feeling any different, and then Clarke was kissing me and touching me—“

“Alright. I don’t need to know any further than that.”

Bellamy narrowed his eyes. “Do you know what’s going on, or not?”

Monty mirrored him. “I think you already have an idea about what’s happening.”

“I’d much rather hear yours than entertain mine.”

“You googled the side effects?”

“Plus the defects, rules and regulations, and the fine print.” Bellamy slouched as low as he could without falling off the stool, feeling that familiar hollow open up in his chest.

“Then you know what my answer is.” Monty shrugged, returning to the earlier work that had been interrupted.

“You have no other explanations? You couldn’t have messed up the potion?”

Monty shook his head, a little sadly. “If it were the potion, it wouldn’t have worked on either of you. So unless Clarke is faking it...”

Bellamy hung his head. It wasn’t that being in love with Clarke was the worst thing in the world—it was simply inconvenient. Especially so considering the fact that she obviously didn’t feel the same about him, or else the potion wouldn’t have worked on her either.

“Okay. Thanks Monty.”

Monty gave him a comforting pat on the back, and led him to the door.

“At least now you know, right?”

Bellamy nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”

But Bellamy had been significantly happier in the dark, completely oblivious to that fact that he was head over heels in love with Clarke Griffin.

***

Clarke had seemed to pick up on his sour mood, no matter how hard he tried to hide it from her. Had she always been in tune to his feelings? Or had the potion heightened her perception towards him?

“Are you sure you’re alright, Bellamy? I don’t want to nag you, but you seem so—down.” She sat down beside where he was laying on the bed, putting a hand to his forehead, as if checking his temperature.

He shrugged, not wanting to say anything but also not wanting her to leave.

She inhaled, opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. This went on for a few moments before she sighed. “Does it have something to do with me? With us? If you’re not sure about this then—“

He scrambled upright, shaking his head and gently grabbing her face. “No. No, no, I’m sorry. It has nothing to do with you.”

She leaned into his touch, and a tear slid down her cheek. “I just want you to be happy.”

He nodded, pulling her against his chest. “I am. I promise.”

And against his better judgement, he leant down and kissed her. Clarke had consistently been the one to engage in any physical activity; it felt wrong when he wasn’t under a spell. But he told himself that she needed reassurance, and that it was a selfless act. (No matter how bullshit that really was.)

“We should start getting ready soon.” Clarke said. “We have to leave for the art show in an hour.”

He nodded, loosening his grip on her. “I’ll call and get us an Uber.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, and he flopped onto his back. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his racing heart.

He couldn’t wait for this spell to be over.

***

“Lincoln!” Clarke exclaimed, rushing up to meet Octavia’s ex-boyfriend.

They embraced each other, Lincoln smiling with a slight tinge of pink lingering on his cheeks. He wasn’t normally the type to draw attention to himself, and Bellamy was fully aware of this, yet he still felt a tinge of jealousy twist in his gut.

Clarke let go, stepping backwards and curling into Bellamy’s side—he couldn’t help but loose a satisfied smile. He shook Lincoln’s hand, and they followed him around the gallery.

“Niylah’s here too, right? Where is she?” Bellamy asked, craning his neck to look around the room.

Lincoln nodded, also looking around. “I think she might be late? I haven’t seen her yet.”

Right on cue, Niylah appeared in front of them, holding the sleeve of Octavia, who looked a little dizzy. “Can’t we just walk in? Like other people?”

Niylah gasped, as if Octavia had suggested they should move to Florida. “Darling, we are _not_  other people.”

Bellamy and Clarke glanced at each other, each holding in guffaws. Niylah kissed everyone on both cheeks in greeting, then returned to Octavia’s side.

“Your pieces look incredible, Niylah.” Bellamy said, but Niylah wasn’t paying attention. She seemed to be frozen, as did the rest of the group, Bellamy realized.

He slowly turned to Clarke, disapproval written all over his face. “Clarke...”

She grinned, grabbing his hand and tugging him to a door that clearly said Do Not Enter. “I wanna show you something.”

“Could it not wait until after the gallery?” He whined, stumbling up a flight of stairs. For a girl wearing six inch heals, Clarke was surprisingly nimble.

After passing a number of doors and other floors, Clarke flung open a heavy metal one, and Bellamy’s stomach dropped.

It led to the roof, which normally would be windy, cold and extremely loud from the rush of cars below—but it was close to silent. Clarke had stopped the world from spinning, and trapped them in their own small bubble.

“Wow,” was all he could think to say.

She sighed happily, and guided him to the ledge of the building, still holding his hand. Guilt tried to swallow him whole, but he choked it back, not wanting to be anywhere but here.

He nudged her hip with his own. “When did you learn to stop time?”

She didn’t look away from the view. “I didn’t.”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “I learned how to slow time—not stop it.”

His nudge was harder this time. “My apologies. Answer the question.”

Clarke looked up at the sky, inhaling deeply. “I was eleven; my mom and I had gotten into this huge fight over something—I don’t even remember what—and I was so angry I let out this wild scream. I swear it shook the entire house.” She laughed a little, then refocused. “But just like that—my mom was silent, frozen mid lecture. I was scared out of my mind, I didn’t know what was happening. By the time everything was in motion again, I was in a heap on the floor, bawling my eyes out.”

He squeezed her hand, silently urging her to continue.

“I told mom what had happened, and she took me to a tutor right away. She couldn’t have me stopping time every time I was upset, and she wanted me to learn how dangerous magic could be, even if it was in the right hands.”

He looked to the city, letting her words settle in his mind. Had he ever had any mishaps like that? If he had, would his mom have looked after him? Gotten him the help and guidance he’d needed?

Clarke brought him back with her hand on the back of his hand, gently smoothing down his curls. “You okay?”

He nodded, blinking rapidly. “Yeah. I guess.” He sighed. “I thought I was over it by now.”

She didn’t ask for clarification. “It must be hard, being around it all the time.”

Bellamy shrugged, guiding her hand from his head to his hands, and beginning to play with their fingers. “It was worse. Back when I realized I didn’t have any powers, it gutted me for some reason. I just hadn’t expected to be the odd one out, and then when Octavia got her powers—“ He cut himself off. He hated talking about it, feeling sorry for himself when there was nothing to be done about it.

Moments went by, and he was starting to regret saying anything at all—when Clarkebared her teeth in a wicked smile. “I can do other stuff.”

“Oh sure, rub it in.”

She shoved him, rolling her eyes before climbing up on the ledge of the building. It took him a moment to register what was happening, due to the fact that a slight breeze had lifted her skirt, making his brain go practically blank.

“What are you doing?” There was panic in his voice, but Clarke only laughed.

“Come on. Quick! Hurry up!”

Against his better judgement, he climbed up beside her, his stomach lurching and threatening to empty itself the entire time.

He gulped. “Can we get this over with? Whatever _this_ is?”

Clarke looked down to the street below, her smile growing more mischievous. “Ready? Jump!”

She pulled him off the ledge, and a scream ripped from his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for impact. They were going to die, they were going to die, they were going to—

But they weren’t falling anymore.

He opened his eyes, to see that they were suspended in midair, and Clarke was cackling with laughter.

They were still holding hands, and he jerked her towards him. He gripped her waist, and began tickling her mercilessly. She was wheezing, frantically and fruitlessly trying to escape his clutches.

“I was scared shitless! You couldn’t have told me what you were doing? Huh? You just had to be a dick about it?” He tried to be serious, but he couldn’t hide the laughter in his voice.

Finally, careening with squeals, she pushed away from him, collecting herself and smoothing down her dress.

He shook his head, disbelief filling his chest and making him a little light headed. They were floating above the city, nothing to keep them there except Clarke’s magic and his trust in it.

“Are you controlling gravity or how fast we’re falling?”

“Why ruin it with questions?” A pause. “Do you forgive me?”

He smiled. “Yeah. Get over here.”

She swam through the air, which made him laugh, and wrapped herself around his body.

They just stared at each other for a moment, before she sighed. “I love you.”

The muscle in his chest roared to life, and feeling safe in their small bubble and the protection of the love potion, he replied, “I love you, too.”

Clarke grinned into their kiss, and he kissed her back, hard enough to break teeth, because tomorrow—there would no longer be truth behind her words.

***

He woke to something warm and body-like pressed against his back. He gently turned, to find Clarke awake and staring at him.

He smiled, his brain foggy with sleep, not remembering what today signified. He leaned in, and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Good morning.”

She seemed to pause, before kissing him in return. “Good morning.” She glanced down at his bare chest, then back up to his eyes. “Did we—um—you know?” She shook her head. “I had a lot of champagne last night.”

Colour bloomed in her cheeks, and he grinned. “Of course not. You didn’t even take me out to dinner first. I am a lady.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, and then out of bed, going to the bathroom and closing the door behind her. It wasn’t until the lock clicked that his brain sprung into action—Clarke was still in love with him.

His heart practically leaped out of his chest with happiness. He got another day with Clarke; another day where she looked at him like he was the world, another day where they didn’t hate each other, and he didn’t have to hide his feelings, and he could pretend that she felt the same way.

He sighed contently, then padded into the kitchen to make breakfast.

He arranged Clarke’s eggs—sunny side up—on a piece of toast, and set it at her seat at the island. He felt a little insecure about the lack of colour, and added a few blueberries to the plate.

She emerged from the bathroom a few moments later, her hair wrapped up in a towel and wearing her work clothes. 

She looked surprised by the eggs waiting for her. “Sunny side up.” She said it like how someone would say the sky is blue.

“Hungry?” He asked, suddenly shy and insecure about his arrangement.

She stuffed a handful of fruit into her mouth, chewing messily. “Starving.”

He watched her as they both ate, wondering if she really didn’t remember taking the potion. Did Monty add a special touch in order for her to forget, or was her brain simply helping her process these new emotions?

“What are you looking at me like for?”

He shook himself mentally, and covered his weirdness by asking a question he never thought he’d be directing at Clarke Griffin. “Do you want to go out with me?”

She seemed to choke on her current mouthful. “Like on a date?”

“Yeah. We haven’t been on one yet.” She looked—scared? Confused? Either weren’t wished for reactions. “We don’t have to. I just thought it might be fun. It’s no big deal.” He dragged the conversation backwards, wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

Clarke quickly shook her head, swallowing her eggs. “No, no. That’d be lovely. I’d love to go on a date with you.”

Relief almost knocked him over; he had to grip the counter to stay upright. “Okay. Great. Okay. Where? When?”

“You’re the one who asked me out—shouldn’t you be deciding that?” She hid her smile behind her fork.

He levelled her with a look, then smiled. “Fine. Marché’s. Tonight, at eight.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Fine. I’ll see you tonight.”

His heart fluttered in his chest as she hopped down from her stool, planted herself beside him, and with a slight hesitation, smacked a kiss to his cheek.

He watched her leave, smiling despite the guilt curling in his stomach.

***

He was suddenly freaking out. What would he wear? What would he say? Did they even have enough in common to get through a night?

“Blake. You’re acting like I give a fuck again.” Miller swayed side to side, desperate to see the tv amongst Bellamy’s pacing.

“I haven’t been on a date in over a year!” Bellamy raked his hands through his hair. “I’m gonna embarrass myself. I’m gonna embarrass _Clarke_. Fuck!”

Miller sighed, giving up on his tv show and staring Bellamy in the eye. “Do you like Clarke?”

Bellamy pointed an accusatory finger in his direction. “Don’t pull your mind games on me.”

Miller rolled his eyes. “I’m not. I’m asking—do you like Clarke? _Really_ , like her?”

He hesitated, but forced himself to nod, even as his stomach began crawling up his throat. Admitting it shouldn’t be so hard—he already told Clarke he was in love with her.

“Then Jesus Christ—go have a good time with probably the best girl you’re ever gonna go out with, and stop ruining it by being an overthinking asshole.”

Bellamy sighed, a hand over his heart. “You always know just want to say.”

He was picking up Clarke at her apartment, and his leg shook nervously the entire ride. He pulled up in front of the building, and jumped out of the jeep to meet her at the door.

He forced his jaw not to drop. Clarke had slipped into a fitted black dress that hugged each curve excitingly, and stopped about halfway down her thigh. He immediately wanted to unzip it and see it pool at her feet. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and Bellamy’s arms ached from the need to run his hands through it.

He coughed. “You look—good. Really good.”

Ducking her head in a smile, she walked towards him. “Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

He looked down at his black dress pants and crisp white shirt, glad he’d decided against his jeans and button down. “My paper bag was dirty—this was the next best thing.”

He walked her to the car, and hurried to open her door. He saw her open to mouth to protest and silenced her with a hand in the air. “You can open mine at the restaurant.”

She nodded, satisfied, and climbed into the vehicle. He pointedly looked away from her lap, where her dress had slid to the top of her thighs.

He allowed her to fiddle with the radio, laughing as she danced obnoxiously to each song. He nearly ran a red light because he was so busy staring; he really did love her.

She did open his door when they arrived, pulling a laugh out of him even as he shook his head in disapproval.

“You really should have brought a jacket,” he clucked, frowning at her bare arms.

“So should you.” She fired over her shoulder.

“Well I would have. To give to you.”

She rolled her eyes, and guided him through the front door. His eyes adjusted to the dim mood lighting, taking in the carpeted floor and dark wooden walls.

“I hope they have a cutlery guide.” He whispered close to her ear, noticing the goose bumps rise on her arm.

Clarke stopped to wait in line, but Bellamy pulled her through the throng to where the hostess was waiting. “Reservation for Blake?”

The hostess checked her list, and gave them a smile once she found the name, telling them to follow her this way.

She led them to a booth, with a singular lightbulb hanging over it. “Your waiter will be with you in a moment.”

They both nodded their thanks, sliding into their respective seats. They each opened up the menus waiting for them, and discussed what food looked good, what was too expensive—as one does.

After their orders had been taken, they stared at each other for a moment, and Bellamy’s panic began to mount horrifically. “How was your day?” He stuttered out.

Gratefulness flooded him as Clarke launched into a detailed story about Lucinda, a girl at her office who spread a rumour that Clarke didn’t know how to read.

They exchanged stories until their bill came, and even then continued the chain all the way to Clarke’s apartment.

At her building, they each paused, not wanting the night to be over quite yet.

Clarke licked her lips, hesitating, before looking him straight in the eye. “Do you wanna come up?”

Five magical words that simultaneously made Bellamy want to laugh and vomit.

The elevator ride was excruciating, staring from opposite ends of the metal box, each wanting to move closer and each holding themselves back.

He took in her apartment like it was a breath of fresh air, cataloguing every inch to ponder over later. Light hard wood floors, white walls covered in sketches and paintings, sheer curtains fluttering, shoes scattered everywhere he tried to step. It was a beautiful chaos.

It made his skin itch with the need to clean, but he forced himself to act halfway normal.

“Did you do all these?” He wasn’t sure why he asked, the pieces had her written all over them. The wide strokes, the splattering of every colour at her disposal—Clarke might as well have slashed her name across the middle of every canvas.

“Yeah. They’re pretty old. I haven’t painted in a while.” She paused her wine pouring. “Or sketched.”

He continued his wandering. “Why not?”

“I’m not sure.” She set the two glasses of wine on the table, and settled herself against the couch with a blanket draped over her legs. “It seemed like I haven’t had a lot of time lately.”

“Work?”

“Yeah. I guess. And just—everything, really. There never seems to be time to do what I want to do.”

His eyes cut to hers. “And what is it that you want to do?”

A beat. Two. She patted the couch, reaching for the remote. “Come sit. I’m sure there’s a rerun of _Sex_ _and_ _the_ _City_ somewhere.”

He obeyed, not put off by her sidestep. He put a respectable amount of distance between them, and didn’t touch his glass of wine. He felt lightheaded enough as it was.

He did his best to relax. Slouching down into the sofa, and resting his folded hands on his stomach. (His decision to have garlic on his pasta suddenly seemed extremely stupid.) But in the end, he rolled his head to the side and simply stared at her.

She was absently playing with the necklace hanging from her neck, engrossed in the tv show to it seemed a point of nearly no return.

Until, a sex scene started, and her cheeks flushed scarlet red.

“You don’t like wine?” She asked, not looking away from the screen but still wanting to be distracted from what was happening on it.

“I like to have my hands free.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so filthy, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Clarke slid her eyes to his, locking him in a gaze that made his palms sweat.

She cocked her head. “For what exactly?”

He answered the question without answering the question. “You look amazing in that dress.”

She hummed. “But you know where it would look better?”

She was moving closer, the blanket sliding away to reveal that her dress had ridden to the top of her things once more, making his throat and other areas constrict. She gracefully began straddling him, placing her arms across his shoulders, and putting her mouth close to his ear.

Her voice was a rough whisper. “The floor.”

He crushed his mouth to hers, he couldn’t help himself. The press of his lips was desperate, but she held him by the hair at the back of his head, keeping him from getting too carried away. She moved her hips in a wide circle, grinding down and making him almost whimper.

She had never kissed him like this before. Each time had been slow, soft—tender. This kiss might have been slow, but it was anything but soft. She licked into his mouth like it was candy, each stroke delicious and teasing. Her hands hadn’t stopped their roaming, squeezing and discovering like he was a new bedroom set she was considering for purchase. He felt like he was going to die, his insides were on fire, everywhere she touched him his skin burned. And he only wanted more.

He gripped her thighs, picked her up, and pressed her into the sofa. Instantly, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even tighter to her body. He could feel the damp warmth coming from between her legs against his front, and it made his stomach jump with excitement.

 _I_ _love_ _you_ , _I_ _love_ _you_ , _I_ _love_ _you_ , he breathed it into every kiss, every touch, every bite. If he had felt lightheaded before, he was practically floating now.

“Bellamy,” she whimpered, and he had to pull away, take a breath, pull himself together—

And he realized. He couldn’t sleep with her, regardless of how bad either one of them wanted it right now. The potion would wear off, and she would remember how he’d taken advantage of her, even more so than he already had, and there would be no hope in ever repairing what had been their friendship.

He gave her one last chaste kiss. “I should go.”

He pushed off of her, barely hearing her complaints over the roar in his ears. “Why?” She whined. “Why do you have to go? I haven’t even shown you the bedroom.”

She followed him to the door, making more arguments for her case. He grabbed his keys, and fixed his ruined hair in the mirror. He glanced at her, smiling at her pouty mouth and crossed arms.

“I should go.” He repeated, more for his own sake than hers. He leaned forward, and she reluctantly pressed her lips against his.

“Goodnight.”

“It could have been a better one.” She sing-songed, leaning out her door and watching him get into the elevator.

He stared until the door closed, and then he let out a shaky breath. He gripped the handrail, wishing he’d waited to leave until the pressing weight in his pants did.

 _You_ _did_ _the_ _right_ _thing_ , he told himself. But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking—he could have been doing the right thing all along.

***

“Hello? Mr. Blake?”

The student snapped his fingers and Bellamy out of his thoughts. “Sorry, Drew. What were you saying?”

“I just wanted to know what textbook pages we were supposed to read tonight?”

Bellamy nodded, flipping through his notes, then the textbook. “I think 67 to 73 should be fine.”

Drew left with a smile, and Bellamy dropped his head into his hands. He’d been distracted all day, his mind constantly wandering to last night, causing a continuous loop of guilt. First for not paying attention to Clarke’s feelings, and then for doing the same to his students. Why did he leave like that? Why couldn’t he have simply talked to Clarke? Why was he so fucking incompetent when it came to her?

He’d never been more grateful to hear the final bell in his life.

He called Clarke’s work, hoping to catch her before she left for the day.

“I’m calling for Clarke Griffin?”

The woman on the other end of the phone was patient, but her words sounded grossly rehearsed and monotone. “I’m sorry, she called in sick today. Would you like me to take a message?”

Bellamy felt his insides twist. “No, that’s alright. Thank you.” 

He hung up, and was up and out the door before his brain could tell his feet where to go. 

***

He knocked on her door, after being let in by the doorman with no authorization from Clarke. Would he ever stop invading her privacy?

She opened the door, wrapped in a blanket and her nose as red as a cherry.

He hid his grin behind a cough. “I told you you should have worn a jacket.” 

“Fuck you. Neither did you. Why aren’t you sick?” She left the doorway, leaving him to shut the door.

He followed her to the couch, where she had clearly been camped out all day. Tissues, used and unused littered the floor, dirty bowls of what he assumed was chicken noodle soup covered the coffee table, and _Sex_ _and_ _the_ _City_ was playing on the tv.

It had completely transformed from what had almost happened on it the night before. 

He started to pile her in blankets, busying himself and giving into his mother hen like tendencies.

“Don’t come any closer,” Clarke warned. “You’ll get sick too.”

He rolled his eyes, and continued his burying. “I don’t get sick.”

“Ever? I find that hard to believe. Everyone gets sick. My mom’s a doctor; I know these things.” She snuggled farther into her nest, leaning into the hand Bellamy pressed against her forehead.

“You have a fever.” He started in on the tissues. “Medical degrees aren’t genetic, if they were you’d know that. And no, I’ve never been sick.”

She cracked open one eye, a crooked smile stretching her features. “Not even— _love_ sick? _”_ She waggled her eyebrows. 

“And you’re delirious. Delightful.”

“Stop it. You are.” She grabbed his hand and smacked a kiss to it.

He laughed, dodging her swipes at him and continuing to tidy her apartment. Once he had finished with the living room, he began putting away the dishes in the kitchen.

When he returned, Clarke was fast asleep, and after a moment’s thought—he carried her to her bed. He tried to deposit her, but she only clung tighter to his neck. 

“You need to rest.” He said, but he wasn’t putting up much of a fight. 

“So do you,” she reasoned. “You’ve been at work all day. You must be exhausted.”

He rolled his eyes, even as he climbed into her bed and snuggled against her back. “This is strictly for medical purposes. You might fall out of bed in your delirium.”

“Mmhmm. Don’t care.” 

He huffed in amusement, and settled in for a nap himself. 

It was strange, he realized, Clarke hadn’t teased him for the past few days. She hadn’t really been herself at all, actually. It was like she lived to please him, only wanted him to be happy. He was glad she’d found her old ways again; making his life miserable in the best way possible. 

His eyes snapped open, the realization hitting him like a brick to the head. 

Clarke wasn’t in love with him anymore.

***

His head was spinning, logic battling with his self deprecative tendencies. What was Clarke doing? Why hadn’t she simply told him that the potion had worn off? Why had she kissed him like that?

It was the next day, and he’d left Clarke’s apartment around ten, too nervous and cowardly to confront her just then. They used to be enemies. They used to hate each other! And now they were fake falling in love to spare the others feelings? His skull hadn’t stopped pulsing since he realized.

He had to tell Clarke the truth, he couldn’t keep pretending that he was being influenced by some potion, and allowing her to do the same. It wasn’t fair to either of them. 

But first, he had to talk to Monty, ask if there was the slightest chance that the potion hadn’t worn off yet. 

 _Stupid_ _hopeless_ _romantic_ , he mentally chided. _Next_ _time_ , _just_ _throw_ _yourself_ _into_ _moving_ _traffic_ — _it’ll_ _be_ _less_ _painful_.

He swung open the door to Monty’s lab, and started. Clarke was there, sitting on his stool, also frozen at the sight of him. 

“Hi, Bellamy,” Monty said, his voice rising with fear.

“Hey.” Bellamy replied, short. Clarke only waved, and Bellamy moved closer.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, tucking her hair behind her ear, a typical sign that she was trying to hide something.

He stopped beside her. “I could ask you the same thing.” 

“I’m just here... talking to Monty. My friend. My pal. You know?” 

He shook his head, arms crossed, disappointed that she would lie to his face. “Really? You aren’t here to ask Monty why the potion wore off you, and not me?”

Her mouth flopped open like a fish, and coincidentally, she was also floundering. “How—how—how did you know?”

Bellamy sighed. “Because I’m here for the same reason.” 

He gave Monty a meaningful glance, and he set down the beaker he was filling. “Oh, sure. Let me leave _my_ lab. Of course, I’ll be in the other room.” 

Monty shut the door behind him, grumbling to himself, and they were left staring at each other. 

Clarke was still struggling for words. “The potion wore off you, too? When?” 

Bellamy shook his head, inhaling deeply, preparing himself for the worst. “Not exactly. The potion... it didn’t wear off because it never worked. I’ve—I’ve been pretending the whole time.” 

He wasn’t sure if she was going to hit him, or fall off her chair. Both seemed highly plausible, but what she did was much worse than either. 

She stood up, and started towards the door. 

“Clarke. _Clarke_. We have to talk about this.” He jumped in front of her, holding out his hands to stop her. “Please. You can’t leave.” 

She looked ready to burst into tears. “I threw myself at you, I acted like a complete fool—and you just let me.” 

“What else was I supposed to do? Tell you to leave me alone? Tell you that what you were feeling was entirely fake? How would that have been any better! I was trying to spare your feelings!” 

She splayed her arms. “Since when do you care about my _feelings_? Since when have you been anything but a total asshole to me!” She was practically shouting now, fuelling his anger with her own. 

“Like I’m the only guilty one in this situation. You’ve been a bitch since the day I met you. You faked it too!” 

“And when did you realize that? Before or after you almost slept with me?” 

He winced, the knife of guilt rammed into his chest twisting. “I stopped it.” He ground out. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of you, but I got caught up in it. It just felt—“ he snapped his mouth shut. She had no business knowing how real it felt to him. 

“Why?” She lowered herself to the stool, tears forming in her eyes. “Why did you do it?”

He ran a hand over his face, and then shrugged with it. “Because... because you were looking at me like I wasn’t the worst person in the world, and I selfishly just couldn’t let that go. No matter how hard I tried.”

She dropped her head into her hands, and spoke through them. “Why did the potion work on me, and not you?” 

His stomach dropped, and his mouth went dry. It was now or never. He took a deep breath, “Because I’m—“

“Immune to potions!” Monty exclaimed, bursting through the door. 

Bellamy and Clarke both looked up. “What?”

Monty was shaking with excitement, holding a pile of paper that he nearly dropped on his way to the table. “Bellamy is immune to potions. He’s also immune to sickness, like you said, Clarke.”

Bellamy looked at her, but she didn’t turn from Monty. “How is that possible? How is someone immune to potions, or _sickness_? It’s not possible.” She paused, eyes going wide. “Unless—“

Bellamy’s whole world slipped from beneath him. “It’s my power.” 

Monty snapped his fingers. “That’s exactly what I suspected! But I didn’t want to get your hopes up. So I tested the theory; on Miller.” 

Bellamy couldn’t believe it. He had magic, he had a _power_ —he had to grip onto the table to keep himself upright.

“... so even though Miller is in love with me, he fell head over heels for Jasper when given the potion.” Monty concluded, looking satisfied with himself.

Clarke looked spellbound. She stood for the second time, and nodded at Bellamy, her voice flat. “Congratulations.”

She walked out the door, and his brain went into overdrive. She still didn’t know.

He chased after her, thanking Monty over his shoulder and tripping over his own feet. “Clarke! Clarke, wait! That’s not—“

She had stopped at the end of the hallway, and he stopped to catch his breath. He straightened, and started towards her. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

She was hugging herself, tears racing down her cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t know that the potion wasn’t working because of my magic.” The words sent a thrill up his spine. “I thought it was because of something else.” 

Ten feet away. Eight. Six. “What?” She asked, wiping her face.

Five. Three. “I started to wonder—why did you fake it? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Why did you allow me to take you out, kiss you, look after you when you were sick; it didn’t make sense.”

He stopped in front of her. “But I think it’s the same reason as mine.”

She looked up at him, eyes blank. “Which is?”

He inhaled. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of your potion induced affection, and I realize my reasons were selfish. And I know that what I’m planing on saying next isn’t going to change what I did.” He let it out in a breath. “I’m in love with you, Clarke. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner, with the way I act like a twelve year old—teasing you and making your life miserable to hide the fact that I like you.” He shook his head. “I hope that—I just hope that we can be friends someday.”

He stepped away, leaving Clarke with her mouth wide open, leaning against the wall for support.

He was almost out the door when she spoke. “Hey. You said your piece, get back here and let me tell mine.”

He fought the smile off his face, and turned back around, forcing his legs to move even as sparks of hope almost paralyzed him. 

“You said your reason was the same as mine.” She said once he stopped in front of her. She sighed, rolling her eyes. “You were right.” 

A blaze of joy swept through him, nearly knocking him off his feet. He wanted to jump up and down, he wanted to grab Clarke up his arms and never let go. But he forced himself to stay put, and a shit eating grin spread across his face. “I’m one up.”

She planted her hands on her hips, eyes piercing nearly straight through him. “Bellamy Blake. I love you.” 

He threaded his arms around her waist, bumping his nose against hers with a big goofy smile. “Good. Happy Valentine’s Day.” 

She huffed in amusement, wrapping her own arms around his neck. “Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.”

He moved to kiss her, just as a door swung open down the hall. “Hey, guys!” Monty called. “I had an idea for another potion and—“

“No!” The both shouted, and then grinned at each other, finally settling into a kiss. 

Happy Valentine’s Day, indeed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was obviously supposed to be posted a week ago. the plot got surprisingly more complex than what i originally intended


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